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I love my spatula. No, I'm not some animated

  • I love my spatula. No, I'm not some animated submarine sponge - I just truly appreciate the fine craftmanship, the heft, the scooping power of a finely made spatula. Sure, you're

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  • excited about your ladle, or torqued up about your wooden spoon, but a spatula? That's the "helen" of cooking instruments. Flat, and long, Metal or plastic. It's perfect.

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  • The spatula remained on the kitchen table. Badly lit and surrounded by flour and broken eggshell. The heat from the oven radiated through the room and I could barely

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  • breathe.Copious amounts of sweat ran down my face as I made my way towards the fridge.Nothing here but bananas,every square inch filled with bananas."Found something?",I heard

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  • someone behind me. I turned around and screamed. It was a banana. And it was talking. "What?! What's so scary?" asked the banana. The fridge door closed slowly and another banana

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  • bit the dust. "You really need to get a maid", said the 2nd Banana spitting out the dust. "Are you really the 2nd Banana or are you just playin 2nd Banana", I asked to buy time to

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  • edge toward the door. The 2nd banana noticed my attempted escape and threw his peel on the floor. I slid down the hall and through the window, falling though a striped awning and

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  • A series of balconies before landing in the bushes below. I got up, unscathed. Then I walked home and opened the door as usual, finding everything normal. Home, sweet home! Tea

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  • as usual was served at brillig but my new girl served it up with some ghastly lady fingers she claimed were all the rage in White Chapel. They were tasty but I let her go anyway.

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  • There she had the time of her young life, just her, the lady fingers, and a collection of boxed wines. May France forever remember their dedication.

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